


Vigilance

by Nefhiriel



Series: White Collar - Ancient 'Verse [4]
Category: White Collar
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Ancient Greece & Rome, Ancient Rome, Angst, Drunkenness, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Non-Graphic Violence, Slavery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-15
Updated: 2012-07-15
Packaged: 2017-11-09 23:48:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,450
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/459861
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nefhiriel/pseuds/Nefhiriel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter loses his temper. Elizabeth observes—and realizes Peter's always been a man of actions, not words, when it comes to expressing strong feelings on a matter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Vigilance

Elizabeth was a practised hostess.   
  
Not only did she know how to keep an amiable conversation going with a guest—finding a way to entertain, no matter how boring or insufferable she might really find them—but she knew how to keep an eye on other proceedings at the same time. It was necessary, with a feasting hall full of men whose status at this point in the evening ranged from the mildly inebriated to profoundly drunken.   
  
Just because her husband managed leave the coarser manners of a soldier out in the field didn't mean it was the universal case among his fellow officers. Granted, it was rare any of these men—commissioned men of rank, many through social standing—made so rude a misstep as to be actually insulting to their hostess.   
  
But there were the jests made a little too loudly. The comradely back-slapping. The spilt wine. The loud laughter.   
  
She hid several winces behind smiles—but smiled for the most part with genuine goodwill, nonetheless. Peter was enjoying himself. These were his comrades. They might be somewhat estranged from the art of well-groomed behaviour, but if they were laughing, and drinking, and enjoying themselves then she had done her job as hostess. These men protected the empire; they earned their moments of leisure. She would not frown at the boisterous results.   
  
Well, perhaps she frowned just a  _little_ —but mostly in the direction of Captain Pomponius. The captain's laugh was particularly grating, and his too-loud jests were made using language occasionally unfit for a social setting such as this, even if the company were comprised primarily of men, Elizabeth being one of the few wives present to represent the female sex.   
  
She felt vindicated in these sentiments when she noticed the irritated glances Peter was shooting in the man's direction as well. Some comrades you would have still taken for comrades if you'd been offered a choice. Others, you wouldn't have chosen to have even as a dinner guest unless forced into it by etiquette.   
  
The better part of an hour slipped by, and the general mood began to mellow as their guests began to feel the effects of the massive quantities of food they'd been consuming. A few still nursed glasses of wine, but on the whole they were leaning contentedly back on their couches—a few looking half asleep already. Soon, if Elizabeth gauged things correctly, they would begin to disperse, gathering their retinues about them to make their various ways home.   
  
A few might stay longer. She noted, with contentment, that Peter was engaged in deep conversation with Commander Marinus. Their acquaintance was long-standing, and strengthened by many opinions shared. They were also cousins, several times removed. Not that either of them needed that excuse to have formed their friendship. Both of them heeded the rules of society, without being  _bound,_ victim-like, to observe all of them. They had both of them earned enough respect, quite apart from their family name, to continue being respected despite small eccentricities.   
  
Those two would likely be talking into the early hours of the morning, yet, Elizabeth thought with a not-unhappy sigh of weariness. She might politely slip away before then, and leave them to their discussions on strategies, and campaigns, and modes of upholding camp discipline...   
  
“More wine!”   
  
The rude call interrupted her thoughts, and caused several guests to glance up in annoyance at Pomponius, who was making the drunken demands.   
  
“You there, pretty boy,” the captain made a sloppy beckoning motion towards the slave behind him. “Bring that jug...here...  _now_ .”   
  
Neal hesitated a moment, expression strained, and Elizabeth agreed with his assessment wholeheartedly: the man didn't need a drop more. But it was not Neal's place, or hers, to tell him he'd had enough—or to tell him he was a vulgar, reeking mess, either, which would have been equally true.   
  
“ _Now._ ”   
  
Neal started at the threatening growl, making up for his hesitation by hurrying forward to do as he was ordered.   
  
“Perhaps we've both had enough for the evening—eh, Pomponius?” The dinner companion to the captain's right attempted to intercede by including himself in the light admonishment.   
  
“No, I have  _not_ .” Pomponius was belligerent. “S'good wine, and I'll have my fill...and I'll thank  _you_  not to tell  _me_ when I've had enough. I can handle...ten times the liquor...a scrawny...half-wit like you can take, Lysander...” He turned back from Lysander to oversee the filling of his cup—and in the uncoordinated movement managed to catch Neal with his elbow, hard enough to cause the slave to lurch forward.   
  
Pomponius was up in an instant, drenched and cursing. Far from sympathizing, Elizabeth could only think of how well-deserved the drenching was, hardly caring if it was an improper reaction for a hostess to have. Perhaps the dreadful man would  _leave_ , now, and think twice about accepting their next invitation.   
  
Pomponious was not through, however. He had been insufferable  _before_  drinking his way through half a barrel of wine, and now he was also unreasonable, angry, and in need of an outlet to express his indignation upon.   
  
He was a large man; a single swing of his fist sent Neal to the floor. It was a common enough reaction for a drunken guest to take a moment's flair of temper out on a slave—but Pomponius wasn't appeased so easily.   
  
Elizabeth sat up on her couch, even more alarmed when Pomponius grabbed the front of Neal's tunic, dragging the slave upright to slam his back against the nearby pillar. The captain was cursing volubly, drawing all attention in the room onto himself. Several guests grimaced, likely out of sympathy for the embarrassment to their hosts, or in general distaste at the scene Pomponius was causing. After all, it was one thing if it was your  _own_  idiot-slave you chose to throttle publicly, and quite another to risk the irreversible damage to your host's property.   
  
And, indeed, Elizabeth saw that Pomponius had his fingers wrapped around Neal's throat, choking him. Neal's struggles to escape from the bear-like man were to no avail.   
  
Elizabeth opened her mouth to call out—to Pomponius to stop, or to her husband, to do  _something_ —but suddenly Peter  _was_  there, intervening, and if anything he looked even angrier than Pomponius. Only, with Peter, anger was always displayed with perfect control, which somehow made it all that much more effectively frightening to behold.   
  
Peter's eyes were gleaming with just a hint of wine-induced enthusiasm (he had taken care not to over-indulge, but he  _had_  been indulging) as he fisted a hand in Pomponius' cloak, hauling him backwards.   
  
Pomponius stumbled, nearly falling, but already lashing out blindly at Peter.   
  
Peter took care of that by neatly grabbing his arm and twisting it behind his back, locking the wrist at an awkward angle that left Pomponius the one struggling in vain.   
  
“Alas, my Lord, I think it is time for your to  _leave_ .” Peter spoke in a cold voice that was acceptably polite, but made clear that he was not open to debate. “So good of you to come and enjoy our hospitality.”   
  
The room was silent. Pomponius seemed to be coming back to his senses, at least partially, because he'd stopped struggling to listen.   
  
“Commander Burke...” Pomponius began, almost whining, as if preparing to defend his actions.   
  
“A pleasant evening to you, Captain.” Peter released his wrist.   
  
Pomponius massaged his arm. His face was red with anger, and with confused but growing mortification. Even drunk he recognized authority when he saw it. “Pleasant...evening, my Lord,” he finally managed to parrot back, before—thankfully—stumbling from the room.   
  
The servants would know how to show him out, Elizabeth decided.   
  
“Well,” she said, addressing the room at large, with as much cheer as she could muster, “I feel suddenly quite wide awake.”   
  
The guests rallied at that, laughing obligingly at the feeble attempt at humour, and resuming conversations all around. They were military men, after all; far be it for a moment's outbreak to shock them too badly.   
  
She met Peter's eye across the room, smiling tiredly. He nodded back, already returning to his place at the table.   
  
Sometimes holding a feast felt more like waging warfare, turning the alliance of husband and wife into something that more closely resembled a commander and lieutenant. Tonight, the analogy felt all too accurate.   
  
Neal was no longer in sight, wisely having taken himself out of sight sometime in the middle of things while Peter had been engaging Pomponius.   
  
Excusing herself from the table with a few words for the guests seated on either side of her, Elizabeth passed Peter—touching his shoulder briefly—and exited the room through the servants' doorway.   
  
When Elizabeth turned from the hall into the kitchen, Clytia looked up from the table where she was kneading dough. The old woman took in her mistress's searching look and nodded towards the narrow hallway that continued on to the larder and storage rooms.   
  
“He went in there, m'Lady—said something about needing more fruit for the table. He seemed in a hurry.” She brushed the flour from her hands, adding with a knowing look: “I can see to him, if you like, m'Lady.” There was no blame—or even question—in her voice, though she had undoubtedly noticed more of Neal's condition than the hurry he had been in. She had been a part of the Burke household too long to question the kindness of her master or mistress.   
  
“No. Thank you, Clytia. I can manage.” Elizabeth nodded to the cloth Clytia had picked up. “But I will take that.” Dampening it in a nearby pitcher of water, Clytia handed it to her.   
  
He was in the storage room, standing with his hand resting on one of the shelves. In the glow of a candle, left burning in its sconce on the wall for light in the chaotic bustle of feast preparations, she saw his eyes were closed. She could hear his heavy breathing.   
  
“Let’s have a look at the damage, hmm?” she coaxed gently.   
  
He started—reminding her of the first time she'd seen him, in the alleyway—and his hand flew up to cover the left side of his face. It was a curiously child-like reaction, as if he actually sought to hide the damage from her.   
  
“I am well, my Lady.”   
  
“Well, then. You'll let me make certain of that for myself.” She pointed to a crate. “Sit down, Neal.”   
  
He did so, hand still covering his face. “I was only getting some more fruit—for the table,” he insisted quietly.   
  
“Of course. And you may do so, in a moment.”   
  
He seemed to respond to her practical tone, and lack of scolding, shoulders relaxing a fraction. She couldn't help but smile a little, though, at the guarded look—or at least what she could  _see_  of his guarded look, considering he refused to drop his hand.   
  
“Now, let me see,” she demanded.   
  
“Truly, my Lady...” he began, before trailing off in surrender, obediently letting his hand fall away.   
  
She used a hand under his chin to tilt his face towards the light of the candle, and pursed her lips at the sight, raising the damp cloth in her other hand to dab at the split lip. Captain Pomponius was a man of violence. He knew how make each blow count.   
  
“You know, despite all the care I have taken, you seem quite stubbornly intent upon returning yourself to the condition I found you in.”   
  
He flinched under her ministrations. “M'...sorry, my Lady.”   
  
“It's not  _your_  fault. It's that  _idiot_  of a captain's fault. This is not the first time he has half killed a slave in a drunken rage—but it is the last time he tries it under _my_  roof. I’ll see to that myself, if Peter does not.” She sighed in the wake of her own outburst. “You are not to repeat a word of any of that, mind you. Not a  _word_ .”   
  
“No, my Lady.” There was actually the hint of a smile in his tone.   
  
Well, that was something, at least. Neal did not respond to kindness like any slave Elizabeth had ever encountered. He had yet to take it at face value. He never quite  _believed_  it. Too many “lessons,” she thought, of the sort she'd seen his last master “teaching” him, using his fists. It made her feel quite stubbornly determined to teach him another lesson: not all masters were the same.   
  
“Will he be very displeased, do you think?”   
  
Elizabeth frowned, lowering the cloth. “Peter?” She wondered at exactly which point he had taken himself off—if he'd seen Peter's anger, and misinterpreted it. “Displeased?” She shook her head. “With Captain Pomponius, naturally.” And perhaps a little with  _himself_ , for allowing things get to get so far out of hand.   
  
“But not with me?” Clearly, the idea was so novel to Neal that it had made him forget to add the proper and safe “my Lady.”   
  
“No,” she assured. “Not with you. You did nothing wrong. Neal...”   
  
“Yes, my Lady?”   
  
“Your master is a fair man. A  _good_  man. He does not suffer that sort of behaviour—towards anyone in his household. You must know that. ”   
  
“Yes...my Lady.”   
  
The hesitation, oddly enough, was what reassured her that he at least understood in part. She was beginning to see that he answered most confidently when he had the most to hide.   
  
“Shall I bring more fruit for the table?” he inquired, as if eager to pretend nothing had happened.   
  
“Yes,” she agreed, straightening, watching him curiously as he rose, shrugging off the moment of concern almost with relief.   
  
“Thank you, my Lady,” he added then, very quietly, over his shoulder.   
  
Elizabeth left, smiling softly to herself. A mystery, this one.   
  
***   
  
Neal's head was pounding. The pressure behind his eyes had settled into an angry throb hours ago. He simply refused to acknowledge it. At least, that was what he was trying to do.   
  
The feast wasn't finished, which meant that  _he_  wasn't finished.   
  
Several of the other slaves—including Clytia, who he hadn't thought even  _liked_  him, yesterday—had been casting sympathetic glances in his direction ever since the incident with Captain Pomponius. They offered him easy jobs in the kitchen, trying to excuse him from spending any more time under the direct gaze of the guests that evening than was strictly necessary. He wished they would stop. The last thing he wanted to do was crawl off to hide in the corner like a beaten dog. The last thing he  _needed_  was to be constantly reminded of the humiliation he had just been through, even by their well-meaning gestures of aid.   
  
It was bad enough that Lady Burke had caught him like that. He had only wanted a moment, to stop breathing so rapidly, and shaking so uselessly. All of which was a purely physical, perfectly natural response to nearly being strangled.   
  
But he'd seen the pity in Lady Burke's looks, and knew she thought otherwise. He felt increasingly trapped, somehow, by her kindness. Trapped, because he found he was becoming  _used_  to it. He did not like to depend on anyone's kindness. You never knew when your path would diverge again.   
  
Four years into this life sentence of helplessness, and it already felt like forever since he had thought of his life as being his own to direct. But he refused to surrender what he could control. To care too much about staying anywhere, with any one master—when that master could cast you aside as quickly as he'd taken you in—that  _was_ surrender. That was helplessness.   
  
When the last guest finally departed, Neal was almost too tired to even feel relief. By now the other servants had given up trying to make any suggestions to him. They were all exhausted, silently finishing their duties and looking forward to their rest.   
  
Neal clenched his fingers around the handle of the empty pitcher, making sure his grip was firm before he lifted it from the table. The shaking hadn't entirely stopped yet, much to his annoyance. No doubt his weariness was adding to the problem. He thought maybe he had forgotten to eat earlier, too, but that would have been hours ago and he didn't have the energy to try and recall. Sleep was far more alluring than food, in any event.   
  
He turned, contemplating where each footstep fell on the mosaic floor as he walked, taking only enough peripheral interest in the people around him to keep from running into them.   
  
That was how he nearly made his second mistake of the night. He was making to move around the figure blocking his path to the kitchen, when the figure said: “Wait.” And then he realized the person was Commander Burke and pulled himself up short, fingers gripping the jug handle even more tightly, keeping eyes carefully averted, waiting.   
  
Lady Burke would, of course, assume the best of her husband. She loved him. That didn't mean she knew everything about him. Neal had seen his share of two-faced men—men like Pomponius, who might very well have a loving family waiting for him at home. After all, these men of the army dealt constantly in violence. Of course they had their moments of temper. But there were plenty of perfectly acceptable ways to vent that anger.   
  
The pause stretched on. Neal became curious despite himself to see how Lord Burke dealt with a slave who had embarrassed him in front of his comrades. But Neal still did not dare look him in the face. So he waited.   
  
“I will not tolerate anything of that kind under my roof.”   
  
At first, it seemed like the beginning of his official reprimand. But the tone was wrong. He did not sound angry. Not angry like he had been a few hours ago, when he confronted Pomponius.   
  
“Even from a guest,” he added, then, as if sensing Neal's confusion.   
  
Perhaps Lady Burke knew her husband after all, because Neal realized he was trying to offer reassurances, much as she had. Much more awkwardly and stiffly—but attempting to, nonetheless. It felt strangely close to an apology. A ridiculous thought. Even a  _good_  man did not apologize to his slave.   
  
Neal wasn't sure what to say. To say nothing seemed safest. But his master was waiting, as if for confirmation of some kind.   
  
“Captain Pomponius,” Lord Burke began again, after a pause, “can be...hot-headed and arrogant, to say the least. We have never been on the best of terms, not since we were soldiers together at the beginning of our careers in the army.”   
  
Raising his eyes, tentatively, Neal observed him as he spoke. He looked nearly as tired as Neal felt, gaze resting on some distant mark past Neal's shoulder. He seemed so distracted, Neal almost wondered if he'd forgotten who he was standing there talking to. But then he looked back at Neal, nodding to him—or more specifically, it seemed, to the vivid marks that had to be showing around his neck.   
  
“Once, when we got into an argument, he tried to strangle me too, you know. A favourite tactic of his, it would seem,” he mused with grim amusement. “The bruises are, of course, spectacular—and spectacularly annoying to have to explain to everyone you meet.” He cleared his throat then, as if recalling himself—or, possibly, upon realizing he was hardly being  _reassuring_  any longer by going on in that vein. “Well. You'll live—my wife informs me. And you had best finish here, and get some rest.”   
  
With that, he left, hands clasped behind his back, strides measured, unhurried.   
  
Neal stood there a moment, holding the jug, and wondering what all that had  _meant_ . It was disconcerting, and not entirely pleasant, to be left without the expected punishment. He'd had masters who'd enjoyed playing with his mind—showing supposed leniency one day, only to make up for it the next.   
  
But he found he couldn't believe that, not of this one. After all, Burke had already proven he would punish where punishment was deserved. Neal had three years spent in the mines, and a lifetime of servitude ahead of him, to remind himself of that.   
  
No, Neal decided, Burke was too bad at lying to play games of artifice like that. His eyes gave away far too much for that. Tonight, they had almost looked kind, which didn't seem right for a commanding officer.   
  
But, then, in Neal's experience subordinates knew a good man when they saw one, and tended to respond with trust.


End file.
